


Ships Loosed From Their Moorings

by chidraconis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chidraconis/pseuds/chidraconis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead. Irene Adler isn't. John's not sure which he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ships Loosed From Their Moorings

**Author's Note:**

> Entry for the Let's Write Sherlock challenge #3: Songfic on Tumblr. Inspired by "The Bagman's Gambit" by the Decemberists.

_November 2014_

The walls of John Watson’s flat are white. When he stares at them for hours on end, he starts to see patterns that do not, strictly speaking, exist. He likes to imagine that they are a sign that he is going mad. Going mad would at least be interesting. He knows he is not going mad, but he allows himself to pretend, late at night. 

It is four in the morning in London, and his mobile is ringing. The normally cheerful default ringtone sounds sinister, because it is four in the morning and there is only one person who would call him at this hour. No one else would call him at all.

“Mycroft,” he answers. “Saw my bank statement, then?” And “Yes, fine. Tomorrow morning.” And then ,“I know. I’ll look for the car.”

Mycroft has hundreds of staff that could perform the tasks John is assigned more quickly and probably more accurately, no matter how often Mycroft insists that John has absorbed some mysterious fragment of Sherlock’s intellect over the last few years. Mycroft’s calls come when John’s bank balance is below twenty pounds, and his rent is due within four days, and never otherwise. John has not absorbed any of Sherlock’s brilliance, but he is not an idiot. Sherlock would turn up his nose at the sentiment of it all, Mycroft allowing John his pride while simultaneously keeping him off the streets, but Sherlock is not here to object.

 

At eleven that evening, John is bracing himself for the ten flights of stairs back to the white walls of his flat, when his mobile plays the default text notification sound that he’s never bothered to change. 

“Come at once,” it says. After a minute, “Could be dangerous.”

“Who is this?” he types. “What do you want?”

A set of coordinates appears on the screen.

He looks up and down the street, and sees no lurking black sedans. He walks to the corner he knows to be a blind spot for Mycroft’s cameras and hails a cab, telling the driver to head for St. James’s Park.  

 

The figure standing in a small clearing among the trees is not Sherlock. 

“Hello, Irene. Should’ve guessed.” John keeps his voice even, hiding his disappointment, though he’s certain Irene won’t be fooled. 

Her lips are stained a dark blood red, standing out against her pale skin. Her dark eyes, framed by well-defined lashes, dart back and forth, but she remains still, not even raising a hand in greeting. 

John remembers the rabbits that used to live in the park near his childhood home. With enough patience he could inch to within a few feet of one, almost close enough to stroke its soft fur. He had spent hours gaining the trust of the rabbits. Now he stands still, hands at his sides.

She speaks in hushed tones, though there is no one nearby. She needs information. She is being hunted by Moriarty’s network. She knows too much.

Moriarty is dead, John tells her.

Moriarty is dead but not dead, she explains. Just like Sherlock is dead but not dead, because John is here, alive. Sherlock died to protect John. No one has died to protect Irene.

She knows John has been working for Mycroft. She is, legally speaking, as dead as Moriarty. As dead as Sherlock. 

He saw a fox catch a rabbit, once. He had been gaining the rabbit’s trust, and he watched as the fox pounced, as its teeth sunk into the rabbit’s neck, as the rabbit’s blood soaked into the dirt while the fox ran away with the corpse in its jaws. He thinks of that rabbit as he turns and walks away. 

 

Three weeks later, John sits in his flat, watching the patterns shift and slide on the plain white walls, and waits for Mycroft’s call. Instead, he hears the default text sound. 

“Help,” the screen reads. And, after a moment, “Please.” 

Irene is holed up in a warehouse near the docks. Her black coat is grey with cement dust, and her hair is loose and dirty, but her lips are the same blood red. She cradles her left wrist to her chest, and presses her back to the wall as John approaches, her eyes darting back and forth. Please, she says. 

She refuses to go to A&E she says they will not treat the dead. Instead, he takes her back to his flat, and helps her up the ten flights of stairs. He splints her wrist and gives her paracetemol for the pain. He thinks it is not broken, but without an x-ray, he cannot tell for sure. 

He insists she take the bed. He lies on the floor, and does not sleep. He keeps one eye on the door, and one on Irene. He does not trust either. 

The next day he brings her tea, and orders takeaway. He sees his behavior falling into old patterns, and clenches his firsts, but brings her more tea anyway. 

She changes the patterns that night, pulling him onto the bed with her and kissing his mouth with her deep red lips.  She rises from the bed and unzips her dress, letting it drop to the floor. He clenches his fists, then reaches for her. Her mouth presses against his, her breath filling his lungs. He cries out, but it’s not her name that crosses his lips.

If Mycroft notices the sleep-rough rasp of his throat when he answers the phone at four in the morning, he says nothing. When he hangs up, Irene is gone.

 

Inside MI5, once past the security guards and metal detectors, Mycroft’s information on Moriarty’s network is all too easy to locate. He suppresses an incredulous snort of laughter as he plugs in the USB drive and copies the files. He walks out of MI5 with the drive in his jacket pocket. No one stops him.

Late that evening, Irene is waiting for him in the park. She presses him against an oak tree and unfastens the button on his trousers with her right hand as she kneels in front of him. 

He puts the USB drive in her hand before zipping up, and watches in silence as she walks away into the darkness. Later, as he showers in his white-walled flat, he washes away a smear of blood-red lipstick from his cock. 

 

Months pass, long and slow and uneventful.

One afternoon his phone rings. The weather is unseasonably warm, and he has gone to the park where he met Irene to watch the dirty slush melt into mud. He recognizes the number, but hears no voice in response to his answer - only a muffled shout, in a language he does not understand. A clatter of metal on concrete. The soft thud of a body falling to the ground.

 

He rings Mycroft, feigning competence at his job; thought of a possible lead, he claims. Can he come in and follow up? Mycroft hesitates, but then agrees without further convincing.

Irene is in Moscow. On the way to Heathrow, he empties the remainder of last month’s check from his bank account. The flight goes on his emergency credit card. He touches down on the Russian tarmac twelve hours after his phone rang in the park.

 

Irene is being held at the British embassy. The situation would seem hopeless to the uninitiated, but if John has learned one thing from Mycroft, it’s that government officials are not nearly as virtuous as most citizens would like to believe. He even has some money left after bribing the guard. Walking in the door of embassy feels like a triumph. 

Irene smiles when she sees him, but it’s not the cautious smile he saw back in his flat. She had smiled like this when she spoke of Sherlock, so many years ago. It’s a predatory expression, displaying a few too many teeth. 

She thanks him for his help even before he explains what he’s done. Something in her voice makes him hesitate, but it is too late to stop the events already in motion. In an hour the guard will take her to a car, and instead of taking her to the airport, the driver her contacts have provided will take her away to a location John doesn’t know. Her contacts, she explains, are part of Moriarty’s network, which thanks to MI5’s information and his assistance, she now controls. She is grateful, she tells him. Grateful enough to spare his life. But no more. 

 

John backs away, shaking his head slowly. Irene sits on the cell’s cot as though it were a throne, her black dress and blood-red lips a startling contrast to the rough white cotton and drab olive wool of the army-standard bedding. John turns and flees.

Upstairs, he takes out his phone and thinks briefly of international calling rates before dialing. Mycroft picks up on the first ring, and without preamble, informs him that there is a limo outside of the embassy. His voice is flat, emotionless. With anyone less enigmatic John would read into it anger, or fear, or murderous intent, but with Mycroft, he can’t tell.

The limo is standing just outside the door, and John is less startled than he ought to be to see Mycroft inside, gesturing to the seat opposite himself. His face is as blank as his voice.

John sits, and opens his mouth, but only gets as far as “My…” before Mycroft holds up a hand. As Mycroft gestures to the driver and the limo eases away from the curb, John persists, but Mycroft silences him with a glare. He closes his mouth, then opens it again, and Mycroft cuts him off. “John. I would prefer for both of us to be comfortable during our journey, but I can and will have you restrained if I must.” Mycroft’s voice is rough, and he winces slightly. John deduces that he has a sore throat due to speaking more, and more loudly, than he is used to. He feels a tinge of pride the deduction, and a small sense of smugness at Mycroft’s discomfort. Then he remembers that Sherlock will never know about this deduction, and his pride sinks back into his stomach.

The ride passes in silence, John staring at Mycroft, and Mycroft perusing a newspaper and pointedly ignoring John. John cannot decipher the brightly colored cyrillic headlines, but the pictures make it look like the Russian equivalent of the Daily Mail.

The ride feels far longer than the clock indicates. When the limo finally stops, John can just make out a small plane, with stairs leading into the passenger compartment, through the darkly tinted windows. 

“John,” says Mycroft, in his flat, emotionless voice. John jumps slightly, startled.

“You do not have the temperament for espionage work.” John starts to protest, but Mycroft shakes his head, and continues.

“I already know all that you are about to tell me. I am also well aware of the entirety of your involvement in this sordid affair, much of which you have attempted to hide from me, as though that would be possible for someone such as yourself.”

John feels the blood drain from his face. He feels ill.

“You are quite fortunate, John Watson, because you are far more useful to me as a free man, and also because your actions have manipulated events in a direction that is, ultimately, favorable for my purposes. But do not mistake me. I have more than enough evidence to convict you on charges of espionage and treason. You will go back to London, and you will return to your normal life. Your tenure as a consultant for the British government is at an end. I will continue to provide you with a small stipend, out of respect for my late brother, but only until you are able to secure other employment - and I do expect you to do so as soon as possible. You will say nothing of this affair to anyone. And you will never, ever cross me again. Is that understood?”

John nods, keeping his face as impassive as he can manage. He opens the door of the limo, and boards the plane, and does not look out the window as it taxis down the runway. He does not look out the window as the sun sets over the Baltic Sea, and he does not look out the window as the plane touches down on a disused runway at Gatwick. He does not look out the window of the taxi waiting for him there. He returns to his flat, and stares at the patterns emerging on the white walls, and he does not look out the small window at the city ten stories below. 

 

* * *

 

_Epilogue: March 2024_

 

John stopped looking for MI5 agents in the shadows years ago, but he has never fully shaken the lingering sense that they are waiting for him around the next corner. He still avoids speaking to Mycroft unless forced. Sherlock has surely deduced the reasons but has never spoken of it, and John has never mentioned. There are many things Sherlock does not say. John would be glad to have secrets of his own, if he were not so afraid. 

Spring has come late to London this year, and gritty slush still lingers in the gutters of the street where the body was found. The corpse’s clothes are soaked, as and so is the hem of Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock rattles off a series of rapid-fire deductions, and John thinks that his coat will need to be taken to the cleaners. John will, of course, do this. Ten years later and Sherlock is brilliant and hopeless as he ever was. 

The murder is the work of a professional. The killer has covered his tracks well, made it look like a crime of passion, but Sherlock is not fooled by the hastily torn neckline of the dress or the smeared lipstick. The smooth edges of the sliced throat prove that the murder was cold, impersonal. NSY should look for an assassin.

They are leaving the alley together when the DI calls Sherlock back to look at a piece of evidence he thinks was overlooked. Sherlock, of course, has not overlooked anything, but he returns anyway. John stays put, unwilling to ruin his shoes further for the sake of listening to a stern lecture on Sherlock’s ideas of crime scene etiquette and the officer’s embarrassing bedroom habits. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement, and he feels a sinking dread he has not felt since Moscow. He turns to see a sleek black sedan, its rear window rolled down despite the chill, idling at the corner of the cross street. In the dim light, at this distance, there should be little to see, but he would recognize the face in the window, with its blood-red lips, from twice as far and in half as much light. The occupant gestures to an unseen driver behind smoked glass, and the window rises slowly as the car drives away.

John is still staring when Sherlock returns. He places his hand at the small of Sherlock’s back, and guides him away, in the opposite direction, towards Baker Street. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is the first fanfic I've posted - in any fandom anywhere! - so please be kind in the comments.


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